


Because I Knew You

by kayura_sanada



Series: For Good [15]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Decisions, M/M, Pining, Post-A Bitter Pill, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychogenic Amnesia, Retrograde Amnesia, Ruminations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 01:26:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11071167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayura_sanada/pseuds/kayura_sanada
Summary: Fenris deals with the aftermath of his night with Hawke.





	Because I Knew You

Flowers wilting in a small, chipped cup, set in the middle of the table. A smile. A lilting laugh. Bright light, midday, blades of green grass that hugged along the edges of a house. He plucked them until their scent covered his hands.

Buildings glowing white. An opulence not found among the poorhouses. He went there, sometimes, when he could slip away. He felt more confident when he walked.

Swords. Gleaming, glistening, red from tip to hilt. Cheering. Heavy breaths.

Smiling. Hands beginning to wrinkle. A voice, pleading. Younger hands gripping his arm. "You'll die, you'll die!"

Fingers pressed tight to Azzan's hips, to the perspiration that made the man's body glisten. A pounding thrum in his ears, in his loins, as he pressed himself deeper into the body beneath him. He breathed in the scent of apples, tasted the almost pumpkin spice of the man's skin as he mouthed along Azzan's jaw. He wrapped his body over this man, took his lips into his mouth, and surged as close to him as he could. Azzan's thighs squeezed down on him. His tight hole, so tight the man had to have been alone, or at least without a man, for some time, clenched and unclenched around his cock. Every part of Azzan's body reached for him, just as every inch of him was consumed by Azzan's heat. He never wanted to let go.

* * *

 

Fenris wandered.

His steps would lead him back to his lonely home in the far corner of Hightown. A place he'd resigned himself to the moment he'd left Azzan's bed come the morning.

To awaken, to see Azzan sleeping trustingly next to him, face pressed into his pillow, hair a tangled mess around his cheek and neck, shoulders rising and falling with every even breath, had brought to him feelings so strong his chest ached.

His dreams had been little more than him chasing after something he couldn't even remember. In those last moments with Azzan, just before he'd orgasmed, he could see his entire past, a wide, open expanse of memories that flooded his mind at the same moment he released. For that single instant, the black hole, the abyss that had hidden his past from him, had disappeared as if it had never been. He had seen himself, recognized himself as he'd never known, with dark hair sweeping across his face, the back ends pulled into a small horsetail. He had known himself to be different. Had known himself to think differently, though he could not recall now how he had thought.

Everything he'd seen, he'd lost. Those memories that had seemed so clear in that instant, in the next, they became nothing more than a haze - a memory of memories. He only recalled the smallest of details now, and knowledge of knowledge. It was impossible to explain, even to himself - there were things he thought he knew now, of himself, of his past. But he couldn't recall _how_ he knew, or why those details were facts. And, as time went on, even the knowledge that they were, indeed, facts had slowly been lost to him.

He had tried, standing before Hawke's hearth, to recall that which now escaped him. He had stared into the flames he'd stoked to life and reached.

_Flowers wilting in a small, chipped cup. A smile. The lost sound of a lilting laugh, remembered only through the memory that the sound had been light and airy._

Worse, the memories were all tangled together with... so many others. The memories that came easily - too easily, even after all this time. Six years, and he could remember the touch of Danarius' fingers on his skin, the scent of the man's magic against the lyrium within him. The man's cologne, never powerful enough to quell the constant stench of blood.

Such a different scent to Azzan. With him, it was as if life had sprung anew.

He reached the door to his stolen home and stared at the wood. He had left Hawke. Forever, most likely. How could he go back when he'd turned away so completely? How could he pretend he hadn't played with him?

The truth was, he wanted to remain with Hawke. But how could he allow himself anything when he had even less than he'd thought just weeks before?

With an unsteady hand, he opened the door and stepped inside. The building looked dim, dismal. Tiles were missing entirely from the floor, something no amount of cleaning could fix. He had refused all of Hawke's offers to get the place renovated; the building was nothing more than a place to rest his head. This was even more true now, when he awaited Danarius' intrusion upon his life yet again.

When would it come? In the coming weeks, when the man did not hear back from his little Hadriana? In the coming months, as Fenris failed to latch onto the hint of a past Hadriana gave him? Or in several more years, when the magister inevitably made his bid for Fenris' flesh yet again?

He would never be free. It had been foolish to believe otherwise.

He roamed the lifeless, empty halls. Slowly, he entered the dining hall. So different from Azzan's home, full of life and family. Color had burst from the tapestries, the hearths, the very stone. There was nothing here.

And how could there be? No past. No future. A family he knew nothing about. A sister he had been severed from, whose name he didn't even know. Of all people, it had been Hadriana who had known her.

And after he had dealt with her, and dealt with the price of his anger upon Azzan, what had he done? He had claimed. Claimed without half knowing what he was doing. Hawke's touch had been grounding, his offer world-breaking when Fenris found himself sucked into a vacuum of nothingness. He had grabbed at that first obtainable thing the moment it was handed to him. His first chance to feel something good, and to not think about the consequences.

While Hawke had likely had several one-night stands, Fenris had never intended to be another of them.

He looked down at his wrist. Hawke had meant it as a joke, but still Fenris had wrapped the foolish favor, the ripped strip of curtain, around his gauntlet like a battle flag. A reminder of what he'd nearly had? Or simply something he couldn't bear to part with?

When first Hawke had let slip his interest in him, Fenris had been in a position to believe he had a chance. He'd faced three years of freedom, with no one chasing him or trying to chain him back to Tevinter. He'd been free to face the possibility of finding something for himself. That something had been Hawke. Part of him might have feared he was simply handing himself over to another mage. The rest of him knew better.

Then Hadriana. Then the crumbling of all his beautiful lies.

First, his freedom. Then his memories. His family. His hopes. And when he'd taken, for once, what he'd wanted, without thought to the consequences? He'd found only the torment of what could have been. Dashed away like everything else.

He slammed his fist into the wall, screamed out his fury. The papers and books Azzan had given him he swept to the floor. The inkwell smashed against the stones, spread like fever across the papers. What purpose did any of it have?

This place was doing him no good. He had to get out. Had to roam free.

He pulled out his greatsword and made for Darktown.

* * *

 

Fenris picked a fight with every pickpocket, every bandit, every slaver and Carta member he could sniff out. He battled until he bled from chest to chin, and only then did he find some measure of silence within his mind.

"Someone told me an elf was going mad down here. I'd guessed it was you."

Fenris glared at Anders as the man made his way down the stairs far to Fenris' right. The man looked around at the skewered bodies draped around Fenris' feet. "Cleaning house?"

"What do you want, mage?" He kicked one of the men. This had been a secret slaver den. Not so secret, truly, as they'd attacked him with little provocation. Still. "Shouldn't you be putting your demon's charms to good use?"

"Justice is not a - no, I'm not going to bother today. Because you're lashing out." Anders grinned at him, dared step into his space and tilt his chin down to meet Fenris' eye. "Still howling out your pain over that woman who attacked you? Or," Anders said, as Fenris glared harder, his fingers gripping the hilt of his sword so hard his skin hurt, "are you throwing some sort of temper tantrum over your little spat with Hawke?"

He nearly cleaved the man in twain. The mage was quicker than he appeared. "Watch it, you psycho. Attack me again, and I'll be fighting back." A moment later, the mage went straight back to antagonizing him. "That's it, though, isn't it? You're upset that you treated Hawke like shit the whole time you dealt with that woman. Not like he didn't put his miners on the back burner for you. He'd been on his way to the Bone Pit before those slavers came through, and you returned the favor by accusing _him_ of engaging in slavery. Really smooth, by the way."

"That is hardly the problem," he said, furious that the mage had seen through him so easily. Then Anders grinned wider, and Fenris realized he'd admitted to having a problem. He made a disgusted noise. "Do not bother me. I would love nothing more than to slice you in two."

"By all means," Anders said, and spread his arms in invitation. Fenris snarled. "So what is your problem, if not Hawke or the Tevinter bitch?"

A part of him accepted the term for Hadriana; if even this monster could recognize the creature that was Hadriana for what she was, then it meant even demons recognized her as worse than them. Somehow, that made everything that had happened more comforting. "It's none of your concern, mage."

It was the nicest name he had for the demon. It seemed he didn't care, however, about which moniker Fenris used at present. "Well, since I travel with Hawke, and since I happen to like the man, consider this me making it my business."

"It has nothing to do with Hawke."

Anders snorted. "If you haven't noticed, _elf_ -" ah, so the moniker _did_ matter "-everything about you concerns Hawke. You are a very _concerning_ man."

This was not what he'd come here for. He was more tense now than he'd been when he'd left on this insane venture.

He sheathed his greatsword and got into Anders' space, not caring that he had to nearly crane his neck to keep eye contact with him. He always had to look up to disgusting men. "You will stay out of my business, and you will stay out of Hawke's business, _abomination_. The only reason I've stilled my hand thus far is because I know he thinks kindly of you. I wonder what he would think of you now?"

Anders' lips thinned. Fenris took his victory and made his way up the stairs. Let the corpses rot where they lay; others would make use of the clothing and baubles.

"So it _is_ about Hawke, after all."

Fenris ground his teeth together. Answering would no doubt simply add fuel to the mage's fire. He wouldn't give the man the added satisfaction.

He would go to the docks. It was still daytime, but surely there would be a few he could whet his frustrations upon.

* * *

 

A small, round table, used as a place to eat despite its small space. Wilting flowers in a small, chipped cup. Movement. A smile. A lilting laugh.

Swords, a cheering crowd. Pain and determination hot balls in his chest. A sword painted red in his grip.

He opened his eyes with a gasp.

His rooms in the old mansion were even grayer now than usual, as the sun only barely cleared the peak of the horizon. He breathed deeply, several times, then sat up and ran his hands over his face.

What were those images? Who was it he was seeing? Who was this woman? A friend? A lover? A mother? His sister? It was more maddening than before, to have something so close and have it ripped away all over again.

He looked toward the window. Little besides the gray dawn could be seen through the pane, and even that was shadowed by the nearby buildings. He could not quite see Hawke's estate from here; he would have to go to the side room and lean around the edge to see it. Yet knowing it was nearby never failed to soothe him. He closed his eyes, trying to let that small comfort fill him. But there was nothing but the same hollow emptiness he had grown accustomed to while on the run. The feeling of having nothing and no one.

He had made this decision of his own volition. There had been little else to choose. What could he have that wouldn't simply be taken away yet again? If he reached for Hawke, only to have Danarius hound him a month, a year, two years from now? What would he do then, if he did not manage to defend his freedom? Would he be lucky enough to have Hawke walking by his side as the slavers attacked him? Would he be lucky enough to succeed once more in defeating Tevinter's troops?

And what if he did? What if he claimed victory, finally, after so many years of running? What would he have to claim? No past, and no future. That had not changed. And if he clung to Hawke? If he ran, his hands full of nothing, into Hawke's arms? What would he have then?

If he did that, he would have less than nothing. Because he truly would be handing himself over to another. Another leader to tell him where to go and how to live.

No. This, and everything else, he would have to decide for himself.

He got out of bed. His entire body ached from the constant fighting the day before; he stretched for several minutes before giving it up for lost and making his way out of the room and down the stairs. He barely made it to the dining hall before he felt his stomach flip.

Before he realized he was moving, he had already swept into the room and gathered the first pile of papers from the floor. The inkwell had stained through the papers and into the stone; a deep black mark, not unlike blood, sat upon the hard surface. He ignored it for the moment, more concerned with the parchment in his hands.

Several practice pieces, along with a few of Hawke's personal tales, were ruined. He pressed his lips together to keep from showing just what that meant to him. One of the stories was one of the first, a story about Hawke and his time with his family in Lothering, living a simple life as farmhands. He would never tell Hawke, but the story of such simple freedom was inspiring to him. And now it was lost.

Like so many other things.

This one, at least, had been of his own choosing. His own foolish, terrible choosing.

Very carefully, he lay his burden on the table, then went after the next strewn batch. Slowly, he picked up every last piece, then, with them spread out all over the table, arranged them back into order.

He'd lost so much to Hadriana's return. So much to Tevinter, to Danarius, to his own pain and hate and terror.

But not anymore. Hawke had shown him another way to live. The man had had nothing, had lost that comfortable, idyllic life in Lothering. And he had scraped and scrabbled and fought to grasp what he had now. He had never given up, even after he had lost.

Fenris had the same choice. He looked over the piles and piles of parchment before him. Thanks to Azzan, he had the means by which to fight back. To take what he had lost, if only just a little. And if he succeeded? If he managed to find his sister, his family? His past? Even with Danarius still chasing him, even with the threat to his life a constant, he would at least have something of himself to hold on to.

With that, he wouldn't be handing himself over to the first person he saw. He wouldn't be giving up his chance to find himself for the chance for some fleeting companionship. He wouldn't place his entire life in the hands and hopes of another.

Danarius may be looking for him, but he would not be looking for a letter. As far as the magister knew, Fenris was a slave, even when on the run.

Fenris would prove him wrong. He would get back what he had lost. And he would do it by his own will.

He would lean on no one. And he would prevail.


End file.
